


as hot as hell

by abatt0ir



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice (Cartoon 1989), Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Temperature Play, Wall Sex, established beetlejuice/reader, i guess?, reader is a sweaty betty, requisite karen greenlee reference, technical necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25351828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abatt0ir/pseuds/abatt0ir
Summary: An unholy vision in black-and-white, Beetlejuice leers out at you with barely-concealed interest. What it says about you, as a person, that you find yourself not-unhappily involved with a corpse (boOoOoOty call, your brain supplies, unhelpfully) is probably better left un-examined. There isn't really a Cosmo article you can reference - Top 10 Tips for Dating the Dead - and even if there was, what would it say that you haven't already figured out? You call his name, he manifests, talks like a used-car salesman from hell, your world is thoroughly rocked, and then you stuff him back in the phantom zone.He's started showing up independently of being summoned, a nasty poltergeist who has made your house (and your bed) the home base for his haunting. You can't say you mind.He does seem unbothered by the heat, which is infuriating."You know, babes, I can't say that I appreciate you startin' without me,"
Relationships: Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice)/Reader, Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice)/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 101





	as hot as hell

**Author's Note:**

> for the BJ discord server's monthly challenge - july's theme was "sweltering"! 
> 
> fucking a dead guy is gross, but being sweaty is grosser, i'm glad we can all agree on this.

It couldn't be helped. You were dying. 

Well, maybe not dying. It certainly _feels_ like dying.

(Though you've never died before, and have little basis for comparison.) 

Okay, maybe it doesn't feel so much like dying as it feels like being, really, _really_ , fucking hot. 

You're allowed to be hyperbolic. You're _dying_. Maybe. Probably. If the heat itself doesn't kill you, the case of swamp-ass you currently have is _probably_ terminal. 

It should be illegal, to be as hot as it is. You're mitigating the problem by doing your best impression of a starfish, spread-eagled on your bedsheets, trying not to think too hard about the person-shaped damp spot you're undoubtedly leaving. The windows are open, ostensibly to let in a cross-breeze, but a cross-breeze _there is not_. The air is stagnant, stifling, _sweltering_ , and it's _all_ you can think about.

Even lying absolutely still, you can _feel_ the prickle of sweat, at your armpits, the backs of your knees, the small of your back - a cold shower might fix some of your problems, but the notion of peeling yourself off the bed and making the trek to the bathroom feels completely insurmountable. Better to stay here, wondering when the heatstroke will start making you hallucinate, vaguely planning your own funeral.

You hope they'll scatter your ashes somewhere nice. Antarctica, maybe. 

In this moment, even the minimal imposition of your shorts and t-shirt are far too much, and in a fit of desperation, you claw them from your body. The bra has got to go too - the underboob _situation_ has become unendurable. Just as your hands find the clasp, you catch the faint smell of cigarette smoke, which might have otherwise not caused you to pause, if it were not for the _very strange_ state of affairs in which you happen to find yourself these past few months.

Sure enough, the guttural clearing of a throat sounds from the corner of your bedroom - you don't need to look in order to know what has manifested in your mirror, but you loll your head to one side and cast your gaze there regardless. 

An unholy vision in black-and-white, Beetlejuice leers out at you with barely-concealed interest. What it says about you, as a person, that you find yourself not-unhappily involved with a corpse ( _boOoOoOty call_ , your brain supplies, unhelpfully) is probably better left un-examined. There isn't really a Cosmo article you can reference - _Top 10 Tips for Dating the Dead_ \- and even if there was, what would it say that you haven't already figured out? You call his name, he manifests, talks like a used-car salesman from hell, your world is thoroughly rocked, and then you stuff him back in the phantom zone.

He's started showing up independently of being summoned, a nasty poltergeist who has made your house (and your bed) the home base for his haunting. You can't say you mind. 

He _does_ seem unbothered by the heat, which is infuriating. 

"You know, toots, I can't say that I appreciate you startin' without me," he drawls, matter-of-fact, like he already knows he's getting some. Though you're usually _more than amenable_ to the idea, the notion of, er, strenuous physical activity is absolutely anathema. 

"Go away," you sigh, miserably, "I'm dying."

He gives you a look, like you couldn't be dumber. "You think I wouldn't know if you were headed this way? Please. I gotta vested interest in keepin' you breathing." That's about as close as he ever gets to a compliment - part of you knows Beetlejuice would likely happily fuck any warm body (and yours is _outlandishly_ warm), but you can't help but flush regardless. Regarding your near-nakedness like a butcher might regard a side of beef, he licks his teeth wolfishly, "C'mon, you put on a show, you gotta expect I'll be watchin'. Lemme out, babe, I'll make it, uh, worth yer while."

You roll over so you're facing the mirror, "Beej, It's too hot to _think,_ let alone _that_."

He hacks out a laugh. "Lucky for you, kiddo, I don't like you for your brains."

"Oh, thanks," you snort, "I think I'll suffer solo. Just thinking about moving is giving me heatstroke."

He rolls his eyes - why do you find it weirdly hot when he condescends to you, that is _definitely_ something to talk to your imaginary therapist about. "You think I can't fix that? Give a guy a little credit, they don't say _cold as a corpse_ for nuthin'."

It's your turn to look at him with thinly-veiled skepticism, "No one says that."

" _Babe_."

" _Fine_ ," It didn't take much, it never does - you'd like to think of yourself as a strong, independent person who _don't need no man_ , but apparently all it takes to turn your resolve to JELL-O is for the guy to be tall, dark, and _dead_. "You better deliver, Beetlejuice," you warn, but there's no heat in it. In the mirror, Beetlejuice sits a little straighter, practically rubbing his hands together with ghoulish delight, "Beetlejuice," if you're gonna die, you might as well die happy, " _Beetlejuice!_ "

The lights in your bedroom flicker ominously, once, twice, before pitching the room into absolute stifling darkness - which is a little weird, for a Sunday afternoon, but nothing in your life has made a great deal of sense since _the ghost with the most_ showed up. When the electricity flickers back to life, he's sitting comfortably in your desk chair, feet up, as casual as you please. 

"So," he begins conversationally, standing, brushing grave dirt off of the lapels of his filthy suit. "How cold we talkin', doll? Room temperature stiff? Meat locker? How about, uh, fresh out the mortuary freezer?"

You can't help but snort with laughter, turning over onto your back to stare at the ceiling, trying to ignore how the sheets stick to your bare skin. The guy _does_ make you laugh. "Sounds like a good way to get frostbi- _oh!_ "

Beetlejuice is out of your field of vision, which is why you don't see him lay a hand on your ankle, but holy shit his hands are _cold_. Not painfully cold, not _ice_ cold - you struggle to find a comparison and all you can manage is that he is exactly the temperature you might expect a dead guy to be. It'd be a _little_ gross if it weren't easily the most pleasant thing you'd experienced all day. "Holy _shit_ , that's nice," you breathe, suddenly desperate to get your hands on him, your sweltering body against his.

You imagine that was _probably_ the idea.

Scrambling to a sitting position, you look up at him with what you hope is kittenish sensuality, but is probably just poorly-disguised awe. You know, objectively, that when called, Beetlejuice can manipulate his own appearance (and by extension, his temperature?), but seeing it happen is always a bit of a shock. His ego doesn't need any additional stroking, but you can't help yourself, he's a human ice pack and you're, well.

_Dying._

He yanks you to the edge of the bed by your ankles, and your legs wrap around his waist - you can feel the coolness of his skin through the filthy fabric of this trousers, and your hands scrabble at the lapels of his jacket to push it off his shoulders, begging for more contact. A minute ago, the idea of sex was absolutely unthinkable, now you can't get naked fast enough. His jacket hits the floor and you struggle with the clasp of your bra for a few frantic seconds before peeling it away from your overheated skin. Beetlejuice eyes you with abject hunger, chuckling darkly at the noise of strangled pleasure you make when his large, cool hands cover your tits.

It's _bliss_.

Nipples instantly tightening into peaks from the abrupt change in sensation, you clutch at his shirt and sigh delightedly. "See, kid, ain't nuthin' I can't fix," he says matter-of-factly, and in this moment, you can't _really_ argue with him. Arousal curls low and tight in your belly, and you grind your hips against his, feeling the hardness of his cock in his trousers, and the answering throb of your cunt. While he palms your breasts, your fingers make quick work of his tie and the fiddly buttons on his shirt, hands skating over the chill skin at his waist before dragging him in close to press your chest to his and whimpering at just how _good_ it is.

Beetlejuice turns his face to your shoulder, normally humid breath now air-conditioner cold, skating over the sensitive skin of your ear, your neck, and sending gooseflesh skittering down your spine. When he bites, hard, leaving what you know will be a ragged purple bruise tomorrow, your hips kick forward and a hitching, strangled cry fights its way up your throat. He pulls away, smirking, and you whine, trying pitifully to press yourself back against him.

"See, if I didn't know any better, toots," he grits out, almost conversationally if not for the slightly feral glint in his gaze, "I'd think you were getting off on my more _cadaverous_ qualities. That fair to say, huh?"

Chill fingers slip down your belly, beneath the elastic waistband of your underwear, and you struggle to still your hips when he finds you slick, and wanting, and _hot_ (so _fucking_ hot). You haven't really dared to examining what it is _about_ Beetlejuice that gets you so, for lack of a better phrase, _hot_ under the collar - you're not particularly worried that it's his _deadness_ that attracts you, and that you'll come over all Karen Greenlee and start shopping the morgue for potential boyfriends.

Then again, it's not like any _living_ guys are doing it for you these days. 

Still, you're a smart-ass to the bitter end. "I'd say it's really more your, _ah_ , resemblance to a bag of frozen peas, but, y'know, whatever gets you there."

Beetlejuice removes his hand, drags your panties down, and lands a hard, stinging slap on your cunt - you can't help but yelp, shock and pain sizzling across your nerve endings, before, through some strange arcane osmosis, transmuting into desperate pleasure. His hands are rough and he touches you like he _owns_ you, like your satisfaction is an afterthought - it's nasty, it's _degrading_ , and a fierce spike of arousal coils up your spine. 

" _C'mere,_ " his voice is all gravel, so low that it seems to vibrate in your ear, making you shiver. Strong hands slide under your ass - you _always_ forget how preternaturally _strong_ he is - and hoist you off the bed. Your legs wrap tightly around his waist, delighting in the sensation of his chilly skin against the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, as he carries you with remarkable ease, peeling you off your damp bedsheets to slam you none-too-gently, against the wall. Sandwiched between the cool paint and plaster and the hard frigidity of his body, you are completely at his mercy, struggling ineffectually in his iron grip just for the sheer fun of it.

(The knowledge he can throw you around like a sack of potatoes just _does_ something to you.)

He licks a chilly stripe up your neck, guttural voice skittering across your fraying nerves. "Admit it, doll," he growls, pinning you to the wall hard enough that you whine weakly in protest, feeling like a butterfly behind glass, stuck through with a pin and spread for his amusement. "Other guys, _breathers_ , can't do for what you I do, make you feel the way I make you feel, you know what I mean? You're, uh" his hips stutter forward, control breaking for just a moment, and he grates out a laugh, "you're somethin' else, kid. A _bonafide_ sicko."

There's almost a fondness in his voice.

Held firmly in place by his hips you can feel the the thick ridge of his cock through his pants, and if you had any mobility at all you might grind your hips against him in a slow, wicked roll - but you can do nothing, you're trapped by the cage of his body, the heat in his penetrating blue eyes, _predator's eyes._

It's a bit like you're flayed open, every inch of you, bones, organs, blood, and meat, and spit, and marrow out on display for inspection, desperate for approval as you bleed out. Or maybe it's just that good dick makes you wax poetic - who knows?

Your focus narrows until there is nothing but _Beetlejuice_ , the rough span of his hands and mossy smell of his skin, the cool huff of his every exhalation on your clavicle, the ragged hitch in his breath. It is the work of a moment for one clever hand to find his fly (the other still cupping your ass, hips trapping you, suspended, against the wall, long nails digging into tender flesh). Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he slides the blunt head of his cock into the slick grip of your body, and you nearly sobs with relief. Despite how utterly wet you is, practically dripping for him, the stretch is incredible - there’s no pain but an almost overwhelming fullness that causes you to furrow your brow and pull your lip between your teeth.

Rocking into you, rolling his hips in long filthy strokes, Beetlejuice snarls wordlessly into the crook of your neck, filthy nonsense about how _good_ you feel, how _hot_ , how _tight_ , how _sick_ and _twisted_ you are. Little punched-out sounds, choked gasps, force their way past your lips and your hands claw shoulders, stars bursting behind your eyelids, searing pleasure spiderwebbing across your skin and lancing down your spine. 

You can hear herself whimpering, a desperate needy whine, but you don't have the focus to be embarrassed, can’t do anything but chase the sensation - your head falls back, thudding against the wall, and he chuckles indulgently at your shamelessness. 

He's laughing at your expense, but it doesn't seem to matter. Your world narrows to the point of contact between you, feeling spread too thin, pulled taut to the point of snapping, fraying at your very edges. Your hips work furiously, rhythmic undulation turned almost frantic in an effort to find release. Your breath burns in your lungs, it as if all the air is sucked out of the room, a single choked syllable working its way up your throat - _“Oh.”_

Every muscle goes tight, rhythmic contractions starting at your sex and radiating outwards in shattering waves - your body clenches down, tight as a fist, and you hear him hiss, hips slamming forward into the welcoming grip of your body. Snarling, his pace picks up, brutally fucking you through your orgasm, spurred onwards by the rhythmic contractions around his cock, or is it the ease with which he makes you come, nearly untouched? Either way, he isn't far behind you, hips ramming home once, twice, three times, his teeth sinking into the tender muscle of your shoulder.

You know there will be a ragged, purpling bruise there tomorrow, and something about him _marking_ you thrills you to your very core.

Chest heaving with exertion, you pant (and not from the heat) like a dog as his grip loosens, your feet touching the floor, the balmy summer evening crossbreeze you'd been waiting for finally filtering in through the window. You wince as he pulls back, tucking himself back into his trousers and regarding you, naked, sweating, messy, and smiles that car-salesman smile of his. You let your head _thunk_ back against the wall again, and groan wordlessly. 

"I am _not_ going to survive the rest of the summer."


End file.
